


A Right Pair

by author1921



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author1921/pseuds/author1921
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock discover why they are a right pair together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Right Pair

I'm returning to the writing world after years away. I'm writing for fun, unbeta'd. Comments appreciated, but not necessary. I'm doing this for myself, and no one else.

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A Right Pair

Sherlock leaned back in his leather chair, hands steepled in from of him. His eyes were fixed on the blond man sitting opposite him. In his own red armchair, John Watson scanned the daily newspaper as he sipped his rapidly cooling cup of tea. Glancing up, John caught the eye of his flatmate.

"Sherlock, What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"Because you are giving me that look that you give the suspects."

"Really? Hadn't noticed."

With a huff, John tossed his paper on to the stack that had accumulated by his foot. As he stood up and exited to the kitchen, Sherlock called out.

"Hot date tonight? Same man as Wednesday?"

Dropping his teacup, John sputtered as the glass shards scattered across the floor. Eyes wide, he turned to his friend, who had a smug smirk firmly planted on his face.

"Oh please, John, it wasn't even a challenge. The poorly concealed love bite on your neck is entirely at the wrong angle to be made by someone shorter than you, and you have a distinct dislike of taller women. Your sweater smelt of cologne when you ran out for milk Thursday morning. It was the same sweater you wore Wednesday. You broke up with Sarah weeks ago… or was it Janet? Either way, you have not been seeing a woman in almost a fortnight, evidenced by the lack of care you've had about your shaving schedule. But you didn't come home until very, very late on Wednesday… Anything you'd like to tell me? I could go on, of course."

John's face slowly turned red as Sherlock delivered his conclusions at a rate faster than the normal human could even process, but of course, Sherlock is far from normal. Shaking his head, John slowly took a step back, not even noticing the shards that crunched under his boots. "Just stop. I knew you'd figure it out, but you cannot tell anyone. ANYONE! Do you understand me?"

A crinkle appeared in Sherlock's brow. "But you said, 'It's all fine.' Is it not? It's not as if your family is not alright with homosex" He was abruptly cut off.

"NO, THEY'RE NOT! Why do you think I joined the army?! Why do you think Harry is an alcoholic?! Because our parent's can't stand the idea that both of their precious children are gay!" John spat out the last few words, glaring daggers at the curly-haired man. Sherlock was stock still, not daring to move lest he startle the battle hardened, trained killer before him. "Harry was the first to come out, obviously. She was always the more outgoing one. Of course, mum and dad would have thrown her out if it wasn't for me. I convinced them to let her stay at home until she left for school. The minute she was out, she went crazy. Drinking and sex, every weekend she told me. But the first break home, Dad didn't let her into the house. She stayed with me at my flat and cried her eyes out for two days straight. That's when the drinking started, and I knew I couldn't go home. When she cleaned up and could function, I joined the army, with less than a year left of school. I couldn't stay."

"But Harry is on good terms with your mother?" Sherlock was puzzled, a feeling he was not used to.

"When Dad died, mum tried to forget the whole matter. They made up and pretended that it had never happened. But I joined the army and after training, decided I could do more good as a medic than a soldier. Granted, I was a crack shot, but I was a better doctor. I never told anyone I was gay. No one has ever figured it out… until now." John's face fell, a glimpse of the defeated man he had been before his adventures with Sherlock Holmes peeking out from behind the normally calm façade.

For once, Sherlock had no words. He just sat as his only friend in the world gathered his coat and scarf and left the apartment, leaving the glass on the floor. Sherlock could hear his footsteps slowly descend the staircase, the door to the street open, a brief increase in the noise from the passing cabs and pedestrians, then silence. He was alone again.

John returned to the apartment to find a sparkling clean kitchen floor, and a new mug sitting proudly next to the kettle. Knowing that Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister in the countryside, John knew this couldn't be an act of kindness from her. Instead, he went in search of his detective parter. The search didn't last long, as Sherlock was in his own room, fingers knitted behind his head, feet crossed at the ankle, laying on his back staring at the ceiling.

"Do you know why I started the drugs?" Sherlock's gravely tone reverberated through the room. John started, having thought that the consulting detective had finally fallen asleep for the first time in days. Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock continued.

"I came out to my family. They were... less than understanding. Mycroft was already successful in the government and in a firmly heterosexual state, while I was the young screw up. I guess I have more in common with Harriet than we thought. I needed an escape from the overwhelming twists of doom that clouded my thoughts. I couldn't take the darkness, and used as a way to escape those thoughts. It worked briefly, but I quickly had to give in to the physical need, which you know I hate to do. Mycroft kept me housed and fed, if barely. Wanted me to learn my lesson without being coddled. I kicked the habit because I hated being dependent on him."

John slowly approached the bed, knowing that Sherlock was not fully cognizant of what he was saying, judging by the state of his grammar, and this scared John. Sherlock was always in control of himself, or was able to appear to be so. He then noticed the line of nicotine patches running down Sherlock's arm.

"Five! Five patches! You haven't used more than two in weeks! Do you realize what you're doing to your body!?"

"I've done worse." Sherlock sounded disgruntled as the patches were peeled away from his skin, leaving a few bright pink marks as reminders of the small high he had been ready to experience.

"How long did you have these on?"

"A couple minutes. Effects were just starting to kick in." Sherlock didn't move, but kept an eye on the doctor who was running the patches under water in his sink and throwing them away, insuring that Sherlock couldn't dig through the garbage and retrieve them. With surprise at his own actions, John prodded Sherlock and laid down next to him, not bothering to remove his shoes. He mirrored his flatmates posture, his elbow brushing the other man's.

"We're just a right pair, aren't we?" Sherlock's chuckle shook the bed, sending shivers down John's spine.

"A right pair indeed."

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Thanks for reading! I used to write for fun, now I'm writing to keep myself sane. I really don't enjoy harsh criticism, and it will be deleted.

Sincerely,

author1921


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